


the wind descending from mountain to sea

by saebeok



Category: Super Junior
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:05:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saebeok/pseuds/saebeok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next morning, entering the court’s main hall with little expectations, Jongwoon was struck by the slightness of the new official’s figure. So this was Kim Ryeowook, junior official of the third rank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wind descending from mountain to sea

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially part of a massive reincarnation AU that I started writing but don't think I'll ever finish. I really liked this particular story though, and so adapted it into a standalone piece. It takes place during the period of Korean history in which hanja was still predominantly used.

_落山風，向海洋_

Although it during the height of summer when it happened, it was unusually cool on the day that Ryeowook was brought into Jongwoon’s father’s court as a young official. Jongwoon had heard the murmurs heralding his arrival - that the incumbent had topped their county in the imperial examinations, and that he came from a family with neither wealth nor a rich lineage - and merely nodded politely, taking a sip of cool tea in a bid to stave off the smothering heat, not paying much heed to the other officials’ speculations on what the new man was going to be like.  
  
The next morning, entering the court’s main hall with little expectations, he was struck by the slightness of the new official’s figure. So this was Kim Ryeowook, junior official of the third rank. Jongwoon watched as Ryeowook bowed deeply to his father, and then to him, his movements smooth and measured although his tightly clasped hands betrayed his nerves.

“It’s a great honour, my lord,” he’d said, and his eyes had flickered briefly to Jongwoon’s before he lowered his head to bow again. Jongwoon noted the unusually light lilt of his voice, the clarity of his eyes. Outside, the wind stirred in the courtyard, rustling the dried leaves in the corner by the archway. Jongwoon – ever a lover of words and known in the township for having displayed a great skill for poetry from a precocious age – felt a strange sense of distraction that he knew not how to describe.  
  
That they became friends was not surprising – there were few people of their age in the court, and Jongwoon was no laggard when it came to his scholarly knowledge, though he had never sat the imperial examinations himself. He found in Ryeowook a worthy companion with which to compete in calligraphy, and to confide the words in his head and the loneliness in his heart. Born to power and privilege though he was, Jongwoon preferred script over speech and so possessed few friends. He’d always been a quiet person, and it seemed Ryeowook was the same because he was initially so shy. But when their mutual silences slowly became comfortably companionable, Jongwoon realised that Ryeowook could actually be quite the talker. And it was probably for the best, he mused, for he would always have a captive audience in a certain county magistrate’s son.

Over the years, he found himself able to write about laughter in his poetry, though he never fully found a way to put down in bold strokes of ink the exact sound of Ryeowook’s particular laugh, nor the manner in which his lips curved, nor the mixture of tenderness, trepidation, and dependency he inspired in Jongwoon. Yet this did not matter, for Ryeowook was perpetually at his side, real and warm in a way that words could never be.  
  
“How nice it would be if we could still be like this, even when we’re old,” he loved to say during their sojourns into town, shoulders bumping companionably as they jostled through the marketplace crowds. _Yes, yes, let’s always be like this_ , Jongwoon thought in reply as he linked his arm comfortably through Ryeowook’s only to be dragged, laughing, over to a stall hawking wooden trinkets.  
  
But one day, Jongwoon’s father proposed a betrothal to the daughter of a magistrate in the second largest county in the land, and Jongwoon, seeing the political expediency of the idea, agreed. He gave little thought to it, for such marriages were but common business transactions in their world of treaties and state borders. It had even been the case for his parents. Yet, when he told Ryeowook about it, he met with a loaded silence that was as heavy as the air before a thunderstorm. He watched helplessly as a tumult of emotions played out in the subtle lift and fall of Ryeowook’s brow and in the way he looked away before schooling his features into a terrifying blankness. What was this deep sense of foreboding that he felt, and what was this strange tension permeating the silence that they used to comfortably inhabit together? He reached out to touch Ryeowook’s arm but the younger man pulled away. They stayed in that stalemate for what felt like ages.

“Ryeowook-ah,” he haltingly began, stopping short when he looked back up at him.  
  
“It’s a good decision, my lord,” Ryeowook said, and his words felt so wrong. “I wish you happiness.”  
  
For the next few days, Ryeowook seemed to slowly get over the strange mood that had overtaken him at that time; they discussed politics late into the night over cups and cups of rice wine like they had always done, but Jongwoon could not help but feel like something had been damaged between them. Something precious, something without a name. He picked up a fresh stick of ink and ground it carefully; poising his brush above the paper, he took a deep breath and held it for a long time as he contemplated the blank expanse. Yet the words did not come. What had been lost, and could it be recovered if there were not even words to prove it had existed? He left his room and went to Ryeowook’s, where the younger man was perusing court documents. I’m afraid, he wanted to say but didn’t. Ryeowook looked up and gave him a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  
  
On the fifth day, a servant roused him in the morning to say that Ryeowook was gone.  
  
In her haste to come in, she’d left the door to his room open. Jongwoon stared out at the empty courtyard, swept clean of leaves, hearing only the too-loud beating of his heart.

“He left a note for your father,” she said quietly. It was no doubt a letter of resignation, probably also one of apology, for Ryeowook was nothing if not meticulous about his work. She mentioned nothing about a letter for him and Jongwoon knew better than to ask.  
  
He staggered to his feet and walked haltingly towards the gate of his residence. Had the sun always been so blinding? He tried to picture how Ryeowook left. Was it under the darkest cover of the night, stealing out like a shadow? Or perhaps it was at the crack of dawn, just as light was beginning to bleed into the sky. Did he cry, or had he looked back for one last time just as he was stepping out the gate before hardening his heart and leaving? And then there was the question that lay at the core of it all, the question that Jongwoon had not the courage to face just yet – why? He stood at the gate for a long time, watching the world outside his residence as it bustled on, unchanged and unknowing. He never sent anyone after Ryeowook, reasoning that he didn’t want to cling onto someone who clearly didn’t want to stay.  
  
And so life went on, as it is wont to do, with or without Ryeowook. Jongwoon went ahead with his arranged marriage, was promoted to court official two years later, and had two children. His leadership was competent, albeit unremarkable; he turned out to be a dedicated husband and father. He practiced his calligraphy every morning without fail and his children knew never to disturb him during those two hours in which he locked himself in his chambers. He stopped writing – or so it seemed, because he never published anything ever again. He lived a peaceful existence, and died in his sleep one morning during summer, when the heat of the day had yet to creep into the still coolness of the air. He lived well, said the people who knew him.  
  
But this is what they don’t know: Jongwoon never stopped writing. But no matter how many poems he composed or scrolls he filled with sleepless nights, there was just nothing that could replicate the person that occupied his thoughts during the day and whose receding shadow haunted his dreams. The year before his death, he stopped by a lake in the midst of his travels and quietly watched the fog rolling across the surface of the water, veiling the mountains a short distance away. Then he looked down to observe his own open palm, the side of his hand perennially smudged with ink and the edge of a knuckle permanently callused. All those years of chasing memories but still he had nothing – but, he reflected, perhaps this was his penance for not holding onto Ryeowook.  
  
And this is what no one saw: Jongwoon finally caved and entered Ryeowook’s room two years after he’d left, having avoided it before that, afraid of confronting the emptiness that he would find there. That afternoon, he gently shut the door, turning to look upon the walls, the bed, the table, the empty candle-holder. It could have been any deserted room, save for the scent that lingered faintly in the air. Jongwoon shakily sat down on the bed, clenching his fists ineffectually as he tried to control his breathing against the sudden shocking stab of pain in his gut. He couldn’t help but remember that one winter night when he’d entered this very room on an insomniac whim just to sit at the edge of Ryeowook’s bed, the emotions and half-thoughts racing through his head all tinged with a yearning that scared him as he watched the slow rise and fall of Ryeowook’s chest. He couldn’t hold back the memory of Ryeowook slowly stirring from his sleep, blinking up at him blearily before shifting over to make room for him; nor the memory of curling up carefully by his side, feeling the warmth emanating from his body, breathing in as the scent that he had come to associate with Ryeowook (with comfort and good dreams and happiness) filled his lungs. He physically shook himself out of this reminiscence, but his face was already wet with tears. When the weight of his memories became too heavy to bear, Jongwoon forced himself to leave the room. He returned to his own and took up his brush, trying to control his ragged breathing. After a protracted moment, he wrote a single character – 忘. To forget. Something he knew then that he could never do.  
  
On that day by the lake, late into his life and so many decades after he had written it, Jongwoon considered that word once more. It was a curious word, an amalgamation of the characters denoting death and heart. “I never forgot you,” he said hoarsely, heard by none save the fog blanketing the air. He conjured up the image of Ryeowook somewhere across the lake, partially obscured but there all the same. That smile that spoke of a thousand secrets, that musical voice, the particular way his slender hands moved, that sense of companionship he never once found again.  
  
And then a shuddering sigh, and then a sudden rush of emotion – and there it was echoing in his ears, the quiet but unmistakable and steady beat of the heart that he had ignored for so long.


End file.
